


I Should Have Known

by MoonySmith



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Not Romance, Overdosing, POV Sherlock Holmes, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 15:44:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18346703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonySmith/pseuds/MoonySmith
Summary: "I'm fine. Why can't you see it?"Nervousness and anxiety had taken over his body again and Sherlock now couldn't stop thinking about the box he kept hidden in the bottom of his closet while he felt his breathing stir."Sherlock, please, you really need...""Shut up!" He ended up shouting, interrupting him."You don't have to do this alone," Lestrade told him."There's nothing I have to do." He huffed again. "Now, if you'll excuse me. I need to go to my room.""Sherlock..."





	I Should Have Known

**Author's Note:**

> Here's another translation I made from a work I already published before. I hope you don't hate me. This is the first time I let these kind of emotions inspire me this way.
> 
> And sorry for any grammar mistake!

Sherlock had just left Mycroft's office to return to the apartment. His brother had offered one of his drivers along with one of his cars to travel without any problems. Probably Sherlock had accepted at some point, or maybe he hadn't, but by the time he noticed what was happening around him, he was already climbing the stairs to his floor. He could hear in the distance that Mrs. Hudson had some radio on, but otherwise that, everything was quiet.

The first thing he did when he opened the front door was to close his eyes and breathe in deeply. The next thing was to hang up his coat and get rid of his scarf and gloves and then go to the kitchen to boild some water, thinking that it might be what he needed to distract himself from his real need.

During those days the kitchen had been kept clean of experiments, and now while he waited for the water to boil, he slipped the tip of a finger on the surface of the table just to notice the dust that had left it to accumulate there. Even Mrs. Hudson had stop trying to clean the place then.

He couldn't remember at that moment when was the last time he had used that table to perform an experiment or even remember the last time he ate there... or just the last time he had eaten anything at all. He wasn't hungry anyway.

He poured his tea once the water finished boiling and went with the cup to his chair. Before sitting down, he saw someone else approaching to John's seat out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock decided to ignore him and take the first sip of tea once he was comfortable enough in his seat.

"How are you?" Lestrade asked, looking at him worriedly.

Sherlock didn't answer and continued to drink calmly.

"Sherlock..." He began to speak, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"What do you want?" He was looking at him with a frown.

"To talk..."

" _Now_?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes but stopped insisting as Sherlock continued to warm his body with the hot brew and his hands holding the cup tightly, helping him to calm down.

Sherlock couldn't stop staring now at the man sitting in front of him. He couldn't help but notice the expression of complete peace that was on his face and that made the anger began to posession of him once again so far this week.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, still frowning.

"I think you need to talk."

"No, I don't," he replied brusquely.

"Come on, Sherlock..."

But Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. Listening to Lestrade's voice saying his name again and again inside his head.

When he opened his eyes, Lestrade was still sitting there calmly, with one leg over his knee and his arms resting on John's seat. A classic attitude of understanding towards the younger.

"You shouldn't be here," Sherlock sighed bitterly, beginning to feel a headache approaching. He massaged his temple with one hand.

He had thought that morning about going out for something to use as a distraction, but he didn't feel fully prepared yet to look for a case on his own or in John's blog.

"Sherlock, you need to talk to..."

"I'm fine."

Lestrade rolled his eyes once more, but looked back at Sherlock.

"How was your day?" He tried to ask instead. As if he didn't know that Sherlock was not a big fan of vague conversations. But even so he considered it a little better and replied, "All right. I went to see Mycroft at his office," he said firmly as he shrugged.

"Yes? What did he want?" he asked, sounding slightly incredulous.

And then Sherlock realized that he really didn't remember what had he been doing at his older brother's office that afternoon. Had he called him? Had he forced him to go or had he gone on his own? Had something else happened during his stay there? Sherlock couldn't be sure right now.

Even so, he decided to respond with the first thing that came to his head, "We were talking about... Eurus."

"Really?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

"Yep," Sherlock made the final p sound a little bit louder.

"So... how's she?

"I... She's alright... She's fine. Happy, as always," he said with disinterest and faked a smile.

"Sure, of course she is," Lestrade said, but shook his head.

Sherlock really had no reason at all to lie. There was nothing to hide. 

Or maybe it was just that he didn't want to admit even to himself the fact that he had been too lost deep in his thoughts to notice what had been going on around him or even why had he gone to talk to Mycroft that day.

He preferred to think that it didn't matter.

_None of this matter_.

He lied to himself.

"Are you upset?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock again felt the accumulated anger in his body about to explode. He lowered the cup to set it aside on the side table and stood up, staring at him.

"Of course I am!" He exclaimed, raising his arms in despair.

"Why?" Greg asked quietly but getting up too.

"Why?" Sherlock repeated, snorting. "I'm upset that I didn't see it before, everything feels so clear now. I should have known." He looked at him in surprise, but then looked away and frowned. "You should't be here."

"Yeah, well..." Lestrade leaned a little closer to him and shrugged. "Apparently you need me to be here."

"That isn't true. I'm fine. Why can't you see it?"

Nervousness and anxiety had taken over his body again and Sherlock now couldn't stop thinking about the box he kept hidden in the bottom of his closet while he felt his breathing stir.

"Sherlock, please, you really need..."

"Shut up!" He ended up shouting, interrupting him. 

He wanted it to stop. He wanted everything to stop.

_Please_.

"You don't have to do this alone," Lestrade told him.

"There's nothing I have to do." He huffed again. "Now, if you'll excuse me. I need to go to my room."

"Sherlock," Lestrade used the defiant tone that he usually used with him when he waited for an answer after some deduction at a crime scene.

"Get out," was the last thing Sherlock said with a wave of his hand and then turned to walk to his room.

"Sherlock," the other man said again, this time a little softer in his voice. He stopped the boy with a hand on his arm. Sherlock looked down at it and for a moment wished he could put his on top of it, but then Lestrade continued, "I ... I love you, you know that, right?"

And that hit Sherlock right in the chest.

He closed his eyes again, letting Lestrade's voice resonate over and over inside his head. Suddenly remembering the three previous times he had heard him say those same words.

The first had been during the last overdose that Sherlock had suffered before being completely clean for a good couple of years. Lestrade had his hand firmly gripped as he sat beside the bed and assumed that Sherlock was still unconscious. Sherlock never mentioned it. People never said that to him. Maybe it had been a mistake or a moment of weakness from the part of the older man and Sherlock preferred not to think about it again until the next time that it happened.

That second time had been many years later, when Sherlock was trying to sneak out of John's wedding. Lestrade had followed him and had accompanied him to his apartment. He had tried to cheer him up while supposing that Sherlock was sad because John had married. The truth was that Sherlock wasn't sad about what the other thought he was, and well, Lestrade had drunk more than he should have had that night and he had dropped those words as if they had no importance at all, and Sherlock wouldn't be able to admit to anyone ever but they actually had an impact on him. It had been important to him and that perhaps, was what he actually needed to hear the most at that moment.

And the third and last time had been only a few months ago, after suffering from the strange game of his newly appeared secret sister, Sherlock had to deal with too many lost memories of his childhood that returned at less opportune times. He had discovered some time ago that sleeping next to someone was more useful than some medications prescribed to him, and he knew that he could always count on the kind DCI when he needed him. He had already seen him at his worst moments in his life so many years ago. In addition, the excuse that Sherlock had no place to sleep after the incident and since his apartment was too dangerous to return yet, it was still valid in the eyes of Lestrade. During one of those nights, Lestrade had tried to console him after Sherlock had wake him up with a nightmare. After a few strokes and phrases of encouragement, Lestrade had managed to reassure him completely, adding those last words before helping him to go back to sleep. Sherlock continued to thank him mentally as he calmed down.

Sherlock sighed again. Lestrade's voice strongly present in his head.

"Shut up," he murmured, now hiding his face in his hands, trying to calm the pain in his chest. "Shut up," he repeated, still hidden behind them.

"Please, don't do it," Lestrade asked in a plea.

"You know nothing," Sherlock replied bitterly before lowering his hands and walking quickly to his room without looking at him, then closing the door with a big bang.

"He doesn't know," he said to himself in a very low voice.

He began to pace in desperation, feeling how every inch of his body itched with great intensity, as if everything burned from the inside.

He was going to stop that feeling, he needed to do it and nobody should care. It was his life after all.

Like a frantic and uncontrolled person, he moved and threw things onto his bed in order to get to the precious box tthat he kept hidden in the closet.

Preparing everything he needed didn't take too long, the practice of so many years after all, had not been forgotten. After a moment of silence, he was sitting on the floor with his back against the bed and his head on the mattress. He closed his eyes and sighed, waiting for the drug to do effect.

He wasn't aware of how much time had he spent sitting there in the same position, but from the light coming through the curtains of his window he could see that it had been enough for it to get dark outside.

"You shouldn't have to do that, " Lestrade's voice was heard then.

"Shut up," he murmured once again that evening.

"This isn't sane, Sherlock. For fuck's sake..."

Just at that moment Sherlock felt as if a great blow of adrenaline had just hit him in the chest and he opened his eyes sharply and then stood up and looked at the man who was standing at the side of the window.

"You have no right," he shouted, pointing with a finger at him and shaking his head several times. "You really don't.".

But the expression on Lestrade's face had never changed, he still looked as relaxed as he did before.

Lestrade, standing in front of him was about to speak, but Sherlock interrupted him again.

He wasn't going to accept any of this now.

"You have no right. 'Cause you preferred to shoot yourself in the damn bloody head before talking to someone about what you were feeling! Not even to me! NOT EVEN TO ME! So don't you dare to come here and tell me that this isn't sane because you don't have any damn right!" Sherlock had exploded to the point that he was beginning to lose his breath. He felt his heart beating faster than normal. He put a hand on his chest and realized that he had not noticed at what point his body had begun to tremble or that his hands were wet with sweat as well as his forehead. He knew what was happening now. Until, then his vision finished clouding completely only allowing him to see how the now dark figure of Lestrade disappeared before his eyes before Sherlock lost the balance and fell with a big blow to the ground, the dim light of the street being the last thing he saw before he lost consciousness.

* * *

 

 Maybe you was right, didn't wanna fight

I should have known

Couldn't read the signs, couldn't see the light

I should have known

(I Should Have Known - Foo Fighters)


End file.
